Will You Take a Buck?
My wife and I journeyed south a few weeks ago for a much-anticipated trip of discovery, wonder, and treasure. No, I’m not talking about joining some South American archeological dig in the hope of recovering a golden idol from a lost civilization. While that would be amazing (I do have a leather whip and fedora at the ready, just in case), our destination was slightly north of that locale, in Londonderry, New Hampshire, and though there were no mystical relics to be had, we found treasures all the same.
I’m referring to the Londonderry Flea Market, one of our annual summertime traditions, where we join hundreds of other folks in foraging through a varied assortment of stuff, looking for that must-have treasure, in the form of a good deal.
According to the almighty webiverse, the widely accepted origin for the term flea market comes from the French phrase "marché aux puces", meaning "market of fleas". This was a name given to Parisian outdoor bazaars that sold second-hand furniture and goods, believed to be so old and worn that they were infested with fleas.
Um, Ew.
While my wife perused the booths in search of flea-less collectible dolls and their wardrobes for her eBay venture, I plodded along, hoping to find something that might catch my eye. In recent years, the value I’ve discovered goes way beyond the merchandise, in the guise of the sights and snippets of conversation I’ve observed. It’s a veritable writer’s goldmine. Behold some of my priceless favorites:
Three elderly friends, sitting behind a table holding a few items which will hardly make any of them rich. Laughter and shared memories are what brings them together, not the few dollars they’ll pocket at the end of the weekend.
Across the way, a loud-and-proud red, white, and blue booth leaves no doubt as to which side of the political aisle its owner stands on. He’s purveying t-shirts, hats, pins, stickers, and more patriotic trinkets, while happily informing all who will stop for more than a few seconds about which direction he sees our country heading in.
Some booths are jammed with piles of who-knows-what, as if one of those large, metal storage units took ill and threw up all over their tables. The time-honored retail motto of: “if we don’t have it, you don’t need it” rings true here, but if you do need it, how they hell will you find it? My whip and fedora seem inadequate for this archeological chore, so I move on.
Classic rock and roll music reach out from quality speakers to draw me to the next booth, where I find its owner sitting all calm and cool under his shady canopy, his wares laid out in organized fashion and marked with clear, concise information for the prospective buyer’s pleasure. This guy is a pro.
“Number twenty-nine! Is there a number 29?!” This loud proclamation bursts forth from the sixty-something, petite woman behind the lunch counter. Her tone and decibel level can be heard throughout the boundaries of the entire flea market and perhaps north into the town of Derry. I wonder if she was a circus barker in a previous life. Step right up folks! See the two-headed calf! Behold the amazing yak woman! We held number thirty, and I braced myself for her next bellow. The burgers and fries were tasty, at least.
Folks being towed around the grounds by their canine companions. Dogs of every size and breed sniff around for discarded fries, while their owners sniff around for discarded merchandise to spend their hard-earned cash upon. A couple of caring booth operators even set out stainless steel bowls with fresh water for the pups to quench their thirst.
The tired look of those who show up weekend after weekend, all summer long to hawk their wares. These folks are in it for the long haul, and by Sunday afternoon, they’re ready to pack it in and recharge their batteries for the following weekend’s session. Others are obviously there for this one weekend only, having snagged one of the few free yard sale booths to offer stuff from their homes for sale. They’re bright, chipper, and ready to deal, hoping to bring nothing back to the old ranch when the dust settles.
There’s even the occasional bit of drama that plays out, such as the upset woman claiming folks were stealing the chestnuts that fell from one of the few trees growing on the acreage. She’s asked management to contact the police to form an investigation. The management, much to their credit, nods politely and ensures they’ll look into the heinous crime. This seems to appease her enough to diffuse the situation, though she walks away muttering about the new world order.
The thirty-something man sporting a man-bun and perpetual smile as he stops at each and every booth. He calls everyone Brother and proclaims that when you believe in the lord, all Sundays are good days.
One seasoned gentleman, sharp-eyed and good-natured, looked for opportunities to engage and charm the passersby. Upon spotting a toddler holding his dad’s hand, the gentleman cracked a wide grin and said, “There’s the little guy with all the money!” All within earshot smiled and laughed along, creating a pleasant break from the solemn business of bartering.
Along the hot, dusty pathways, throughout the maze of classic VCRs, rusty hand tools, and framed Taylor Swift photos being offered for sale, another treasure permeates this place. There’s a sense of community here which one might not expect when they pull up to pay their $1.50 entrance fee (seniors are free!). Folks know each other by name, cover their booths when they need a pee break, and genuinely care about their customers. It’s not an easy way to make a living, but it’s their way, and what more can any of us ask for?
As I close up shop on this little blog post, may we all find our own way, and always feel good about walking our path, regardless of what that might be. Let’s embrace it and keep on going!
Basically, what I’m saying is: whatever you are, be a good one.
Until next week, my friends.
-Dave
